I think of him more or less continuously and a fleeting thought sends me into a flurry of, of, of… happiness.

Pure unadulterated happiness. I’m happy he’s on this planet somewhere. Even if that where isn’t anywhere near me. All this and I’m marrying someone else in four weeks. I force myself to return to Fi. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, honesty.

She puts the drinks on the table.

Tes. Honestly, what do you think of the show at the moment?’

‘Well, it’s fine.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Very good,’ Fi corrects. I raise the other eyebrow. This doesn’t create such a fetching effect but at least my expression corresponds with my thoughts. Fi sighs. ‘It’s lost its bite. There are no surprises.’ She’s right.

‘Any ideas?’

‘A few.’ I wonder if she’s going to share them. She must have invited me for a drink just for this opportunity. The opportunity to say, ‘Actually I’ve sketched out a couple of ideas and a business case,’ and then to reach for her satchel. I pause. She doesn’t do this. I’m surprisingly relieved. Frankly a ten-hour day is enough for anyone.

‘Another thing.’ Fi hesitates and examines her nails. I notice that, somewhat out of character, her nails are bitten, stubby runts of nails. I wonder what’s making her nervous. Or has she always bitten her nails? I can’t remember.

‘Go on, what other thing? Actually don’t, I’ll get the drinks in then you can tell me.’ Odd that our glasses are already empty. I engage in that necessary hand-to-hand combat with other pushy, over-aggressive and well-dressed Londoners. Luckily I’m served immediately. It takes a rare barman to ignore me (and a rare barwoman to serve me). I squeeze my way back to Fi. I feel as though I’ve just spent six weeks in army training. Sensibly I’ve bought us both two G&Ts; two doubles, actually. Well, it saves having to tackle the assault course for at least another fifteen minutes.

‘Go on. The other thing?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘You. You’ve changed.’

‘I’m wearing eye shadow – maybe that’s it. I read that eye shadow was in again,’ I defend.

Fi stares. She can’t decide if I’m being deliberately obtuse or uncharacteristically thick. The truth is, I’m nervous. I neck both my drinks as though they are water. Fi pushes her spare one in my direction.

‘Maybe it’s the engagement but—’ she’s steeling herself. Deciding whether to be brutally straight or not. She ploughs on. All I can do is admire her stupidity. ‘You just don’t seem as interested.’

‘I’m very busy,’ I snap with indignation.

‘Of course.’ Assuring.

‘I can’t be expected to do everything.’ Defensive.

‘Certainly not.’ Insincere.

‘You’re managing.’ Petulant.

‘Absolutely.’ Condescending.

‘I’m not as interested.’ Truthful.

Truthful. Fuck. That’s unprecedented. I swill back another huge glug of gin.

‘Oh shit, Fi, what can I say?’

Fi tilts her head, silently nods and I want to say something. I want to confide in her. I mean, I really like her. OK, it’s quite a sudden intimacy, I have been resisting becoming matey. It could be something to do with the several gins that I’ve necked in as many minutes, but I want to talk to someone. Anyone. And Fi is the one in front of me. Two actually. There are suddenly two Fis in front of me. And a whole pile of glasses. I shake my head gently from side to side.

‘Maybe because now you are getting married you are slightly less cynical and the programme is no longer as appealing?’ offers Fi.

Maybe.

She could be right. I want this to be the answer.

‘Or maybe it’s simply that you are really busy with other things. I mean before you got engaged absolutely everything came after work – your friends, your family. Maybe you are simply reprioritizing because you are busier now.’

Yes, the endless lists. I’m suddenly chilled as a flash of panic hits me. Have I given the list of hymn choices to the organist?

What does she mean – ‘everything came after’ my work?

Fi’s saying something else. I try to listen. The room is carousing. I touch my head but it still thinks it’s a spinning top.

‘When did you get engaged? March, wasn’t it?’ She doesn’t wait for my confirmation. She drags heavily on her cigarette. ‘Yet I’d say that your disinterest stems back further than that.’ I freeze. ‘Back to January. Did you make a New Year resolution not to work as hard?’

I glare at her. Both Fi and I know that she’s pieced it together. She isn’t absolutely spelling it out and this could be for one of a number of reasons. Either she’s not drunk enough, or she still has vague enough recollections that I whip hide rather efficiently and I’m her boss, or she hasn’t a lot of cash with her and she can’t afford to offend me as she needs me to buy her drinks. I pause and consider what her reticence can be attributed to. Fi takes advantage of the pause by going to the bar and buying some more drinks. So she has plenty of cash.

As she sits down I blurt, ‘It’s Darren.’

‘Darren who?’

‘Darren Smith.’ I resist adding ‘of course’. How can she not know who Darren is? How come his name isn’t embroidered on her consciousness? I feel gelded.

‘Smith? I always think that’s such a pointless surname. It doesn’t throw any light on the matter of identification.’

I scowl at Fi. Smith is a strong name. Where would England have been without black smiths and gold smiths and plain smiths? A slightly embarrassing recollection tickles my conscience. I vaguely remember thinking Smith (and Darren) were stupid names. Over the last few months this has changed somewhat; I’ve been associating Smith (and Darren) and, more specifically, Darren Smith with strength, goodness and downright horniness, rather than pseudo names for adulterous couples embarking on a dirty weekend. I hunt out the more familiar part of my nature, my ability to be Machiavellian.

‘Darren. You know, that stubborn git that I tried, and failed, to get on the show,’ I prompt Fi. I’m trying to give the impression that he was a no mark in my grand scheme. This is stupid. Talking about Darren is stupid. Why am I doing this? It’s dangerous. Fi hadn’t associated my peculiar and sudden squeamishness with Darren and I should be relieved. I shouldn’t be pursuing the topic. Because no matter what I am marrying Josh next month. Josh who isn’t a risk and isn’t a bad option. It’s stupid to bring up another man’s name in conversation.

I can’t stop myself.

Saying his name aloud is a relief.

And anyway I’m only talking about him. Perhaps talking about him will help me clarify the situation. It does need clarifying because – I’m certain this is just the drink – but suddenly I can’t remember why I didn’t return his calls.

The beauty? The horn?’ asks Fi.

‘Hmmm. Was he? Yes, I suppose, in a very obvious way he could be described as attractive. I’m referring more to his arguments on collective responsibility, taste, decency and erosion of public standards.’

I force myself to look at Fi. She’s staring right back at me. It’s obvious that she doesn’t believe me. That’s because she wasn’t born yesterday. I suddenly sober up and know I have to change the subject. My mind is whitewashed. Blank. Vacant. Clean.

‘I slept with him.’

‘I know that.’ Fi waves my confession away with a beer mat. It strikes me that when other women confess this type of thing the reaction is usually a little more stunning. Fi goes on to explain why she’s not that astounded. ‘But you sleep with everyone.’

‘Actually I don’t. Not any more. I haven’t slept with anyone since Darren.’

‘Not even—’

‘Not even Josh.’

Fi looks as though she’s just received news that there is intelligent life on Mars. More, that they are male. I take a deep breath.

‘We tried but – well, it was awkward, and so we thought it’s probably just the pressure.’ She doesn’t seem to be following me. ‘Josh says it doesn’t matter.’

But patently it does. Josh must be wondering how, since I’ve slept with half the male race in London, I can’t have sex with him – my fiancé. It is a good question. He’s lovely. I’ve slept with men I barely knew, never mind liked. Why the sudden capricious nature? Sex has never been in my head, firmly staying where it should be, in bed. Except for the mind fuck games which I played, but that was entertainment. I don’t do sentimentality or lamenting lost love.

At least I didn’t.

I got on. So there was never any issue about, ‘I like him but I just don’t fancy him’. Now I have problems with every aspect. His smell. Not that he smells terrible – the reverse is true. Josh always smells beautifully coiffured and doused in aftershave. But I want to smell him. His fingers, his armpits, his feet, his sperm.

But then I don’t.

‘Well, you know, it was bound to be difficult because we’ve known each other so long, in such a different context.’ I look at Fi again. From her face it’s clear that my explanation is mud. ‘And so we thought we’d wait until after the… you know—’

‘Wedding?’ prompts Fi. I’m grateful.

‘Yeah, the wedding.’

‘But the real reason is because you’ve still got the hots for Darren.’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘Oh, I thought you were.’

Another cab. This time to Josh’s. I find him in front of his PlayStation. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he tells me that there’s beer in the fridge.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he yells through to the kitchen. ‘What’s on your mind? If it’s the ushers, don’t worry, your mother’s already called me. And she mentioned the honeymoon, too. I’ve cancelled the bungy jumping from Sydney harbour.’